Carmella approved in a nodding way. Taylor attempted to move out and sign a new lease and Georgia begged her not to. Damon grumped, in an I hate this, how can I persuade you to change your mind way. He said they’d spend enough time apart when he started working again and he didn’t see why they had to ration things now. She blamed Fluffy. A girl needs fish time. But those two nights were significant, even if they often included falling asleep with the phone at her ear and Damon’s voice in her dreams. They were a health check; they were not getting consumed to her cuticles by Damon’s world. They were a reminder he didn’t need her, except a in bone shaking, organs turned to liquid mush manner that was utterly appropriate and made her feel so brushed smart and shiny new she was thinking that lap dance idea was a good one.
That man, that sexy, swaggering musician with a voice that could inspire dystopian revolution or mass orgies, was in love with her and he’d never even know what she looked like in the traditional way and that didn’t matter. She had no idea what she’d done to deserve him.
A ha
nd on her elbow. “Hey.” Heather’s big smile. She untied her apron and shoved it through the servery hatch. She looked tired but not unhappy to be here.
She shrugged at Georgia’s what gives look. “What could I do, Angus called in a panic. We’re going to have to get you a responsible service of alcohol certificate, teach you to pull a beer, make a cocktail and take a dinner order.”
“Me?” She’d never waitressed or poured a beer. She’d worked retail before she qualified, like Taylor still did, but the idea she was enough part of this crew for Heather to suggest she pitch in was a little thrill. She’d learn to be the best beer puller in town if it would help out. Meanwhile, watching Damon wasn’t helping her sanity.
She inclined her head towards the stage and an eyebrow towards the ceiling.
Heather laughed. “He’s a fire hazard in more ways than one tonight.” She blew on her fingers as if they were burning. “Scorching.”
Georgia turned back to watch Damon and gagged on her happiness. She was too late with the lap dance. Another woman, young, blonde, attractive, was in the process of putting Damon’s fire out, or maybe turning it into an exploding star. She was gyrating on his hip, arms looped over his neck while several of her girlfriends at the edge of the stage catcalled and whistling.
“That’s Liz. She’s a regular. She’s always had a thing for Damon.”
Georgia didn’t need to be jealous, but Jesus. Damon had an arm around Liz’s waist. She choked out. “Have they?” He might’ve been trying to hold Liz upright, or stop her pushing him over. Liz might’ve been humping his leg.
“She’s a nice person, but she drinks too much. She never got past Taylor.”
“Past Taylor?”
“Best wingman a fella could have.”
That made sense. Georgia shook her head. She couldn’t take her eyes off Damon. “How did I get past Taylor?”
Heather elbowed her. What Georgia wouldn’t give for alien eyes in the side of her head so she could look at Heather and shoot daggers at Liz at the same time. She did a half turn double-take and felt a tendon ping in her neck—ow, it hurt. She put her hand to the electric shock. She was ridiculous.
Heather laughed and slid an arm over her shoulder. “You snuck right under her guard, and we’re all so glad you did.”
Georgia whimpered, adding pathetic to her tally of ineffective responses.
One of Liz’s girlfriends had climbed onto the stage. The two women flanked Damon as if he was a pole they could dance. Someone had taken the beer and the cigarette from him and he had a hand each on Liz and her partner in sexual aggression. They got his shirt right off and there was a roar of approval with a high female note of hysteria to it. But maybe that was just her and Heather, they were both adding their voices to the madness, though Heather was cheering and the sound coming out of Georgia’s mouth was more like what happens when a cow plays chicken with a semi-trailer.
She did not like this at all. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t safe, and Damon was absolutely rocking it. He’d lost the bemused expression he’d worn when Liz arrived and he was working this for every beat, every riff, every groove there was.
He was growling in the mic, being free with his hands. He had a smile as wide as an airstrip. She felt like bursting into tears for no good reason. He was having fun. The audience was into it. The rest of the guys were playing up to it: Jamie on his knees, strumming his fingers raw in front of Damon, Taylor imitating the bump and grind with a bloke she’d plucked from the audience, Sam laughing like a loon.
“Georgia, girl.” Heather’s hand on her arm. “That’s just fun. If that man was any more into you it’d be a natural disaster warning.”
Georgia dropped her head, closed her eyes against a useless teenage flood of emotion. Heather was right and there was no suspense, no unanswered question about where she was with Damon, but she was twenty-nine years old and still naïve in love and its shadow plays. She’d had one serious boyfriend, one marriage gone bad, one chance at an affair not taken, and years of suppressing her feelings and denying her desires. She was furious with Liz and her friend. She had a bilious green case of jealousy and she wanted to slap Damon so hard he never touched another woman again.
“Go get him, girlfriend.”
She tried to breathe out the dragon that’d coiled inside her. The place was full of movement, a standing ovation, a run on the bar for last drinks. The guys were unplugging for the night. Damon was surrounded. All of Liz’s posse grabbing at him. Taylor managed to give him his shirt, and he got it back on, but he didn’t need Georgia, he was well looked after.
“Look at him. Really look at him,” said Heather.
She looked, frowning, and then she saw. He wasn’t enjoying this. The show was over and he wanted out, but he was stuck. He needed his cane or someone to help him off the stage. Jamie was hovering, unsure what to do, looking out at the bar as if for rescue. He wasn’t leaving Damon, but he couldn’t exactly manhandle the women away from him.
She moved across the room, weaving in and out of tables, cutting between people, skirting around big groups until she got to the edge of the raised platform that served as a stage.
Jamie said, “Thank fuck,” when she stepped over the kick plate. “Get him out of there.”
Up close, Damon’s expression told her how much her sixteen-year-old fears were a waste of headspace. How could the women not see his discomfort at their pawing, but they were drunk and high on each other and the fact that he was hotter than salsa and their captive. She couldn’t very well manhandle her way to him either.